Reverie Of The Killer
by Epic Insanity
Summary: The musings of Erik in his many settings-usually involving an epiphany of sorts.
1. Reverie of the Killer

**Why, yes. Yes, I just did that.**

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Oh good, you're here!

I know you hear me, trembling as you are. Suddenly weak at the knees, short of breath, can't see three inches in front of your face, is that right?

Aha, you thought I wouldn't come. I can see it now: you showering yourself in optimistic confidence, oblivious to the fact that your worst fear is pacing just outside the door and imagining the perfect way to rid the world of your retched existence.

Oh, don't scream, don't even open your mouth. I see your lips squirming. I bet you want to yell, call, scream, plead for help. Am I right?

Of course I am.

You see, I do this often. I know very well the look of petrifying fear on my prey's features. Even handsome men become ugly with their eyes wide in anxiety and cheeks dripping with nervous sweat. Their teeth clench when they realize sound does them no good-and if they can't call for someone to save them, why not just bite their own tongue off? Skin goes pale white like the foam in spit and it's hardly an appealing color for you, my dear.

I should give you a mirror to show you how very appetizing you look. Or unappetizing, depending on who you ask. I for one find nostrils flaring in an attempt to regain lost oxygen a very delicious sight to accompany that of your corpse rotting on my dining table. I like human ornaments, of course. They're the only company I see down here and they look simply ravishing on the gleaming wood next to a silver plate of whatever my stomach hungers for.

Oh you're really shaking now! I suppose I shouldn't have told you that as you might get sick. But then again, a dead body in a pile of its own regurgitation is almost…artist, no?

Don't try to reason with me. I am unforgiving. You told yourself I wouldn't come so it's not up to me to hold up any end of your self-made bargain. I do what I please and right now, to slit your throat open and take a look at your esophagus (or perhaps your pharynx) would make me almost giddy with joy. Can you see in your mind's eye your own respiratory organs open for my visual pleasure? I do have a fascination for the body's breathing mechanisms.

My favorite way of killing is by strangulation, so doesn't that make sense?

Don't nod in the affirmative. To have your killer suddenly seem sensible will do nothing for your mental health. Not that you'll have to worry about that from this time on…

No, no, no. No running for you. I've got quite a bit of work ahead of me, don't I? Carving you up carefully is the hard part because sometimes I can't help but play in the mess I make. All those entrails are rather entertaining, don't you think? They go on and on and on from one point to the other, a single tube running through your body. That's right, it's just a tube! Just a tube that's been looped and rolled and expanded here and tightened there.

But enough chitchat, let's get to business. I'm dying to get my hands around that imminently lifeless neck of yours!


	2. What Ifs Count For Nothing

**Okay, it's been a while and I know you all terribly miss me. But, while I was gone, I moved to college, got a job that I have to walk 30 minutes (one way) to get to, and started on auditions that I have for placement in one of multiple ensembles. So I'm busy! I haven't been able to write because it's hard to get inside Erik's head when I can't unscramble my own thoughts. But, I sat down last night and jotted some thoughts down. It's not great and I don't even really like it, but here you are!**

**I'm in a war against PHLover213. By the way, a vote for me is a vote for saving the life of an abandoned kitten! *DISCLAIMER* We're not really taking votes, but your support is vital! With your support I'll stay up until an ungodly time of the night updating. And that makes you happy right? Nod yes. Good!**

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What Ifs Count For Nothing

I may as well be lying on the ground with a bullet in my head. In fact the more I think about it, why aren't I collapsed in a deep red lake of my own blood? Why isn't there the sound of a pistol cocking to send another bullet through my body? I feel like I've been shot, but there is no visibe wound. How can I still be on my feet, weakly, but upright still?

_I'm dying, aren't I? _

Even though there is no injury, my world is spinning beyond glassy eyes covered in tears. Hands shake, clench and unclench, grab something to throw and then discard it carelessly. My breath comes in short gasps and I know I'm hyperventilating by the way my chest squeezes.

Finally happening upon something worthy of destroying, my hands descend upon my organ. The painstakingly transported and reconstructed instrument, a marvel of its kind, is torn apart piece by piece until nothing remains but scraps. All I can think of is if I push aside this pain with something else-like the torturous dismantlement of such a wonderful instrument-then it will fade and ease into a tiny crack in my heart where it will only sizzle against stronger emotions.

The trick doesn't work. I still feel as if everything is falling apart around me. The very walls of my home will eventually join the unsalvageable remnants of my life in a pile of rubble. My belongings, my music will be crushed. I don't stand a chance now. I've no hope left; my scarce stores of optimism were depleted the moment…

And then my life flashes before my eyes. Yes, yes. I'm truly dying then.

The first sound I ever heard was my mother's scream as she looked upon my horrid face. Something wonderful to remember as a child's lullaby, I think.

I can see her face contorted in anger, hatred, and disgust. My little world back then consisted of nothing but seeking ways to make mother happy. It seems little has changed since then except for the replacement of mother for someone I…

She beat me once. There it is now, right in front of my eyes! Tiny hands reach up to protect an already broken face against the furious swipes meant to rip it off. _"This is not my child. My real son is hidden behind this monstrous face!" _After that, mother was too afraid to touch me lest she conceive some disease. My hunger took the next beating. And the next. And the next.

I remember running away, her delirious ranting haunting the house I abandoned. I can still feel the first breath of freedom-it never quite left me-and the way it filled my lungs with a chilly thrill. There was running and stumbling and nervous laughter before the freedom was replaced with a cage.

The gypsies. It is with them that I became the creature my mother always feared. I received my first taste of blood: agonizing sweetness and then misery I once though incomparable to any pain. Until now. My bony hands clutch at my heart, struggling against the ribcage that restricts the beating organ from leaping from my chest.

The images flash quicker now. A country here, a murder there, a pause to fully appreciate the look upon Luciana's face as she fell to her death, a hiss in my direction, a blow to the back of the head for being born ugly.

But I don't understand.

My life is flashing before my eyes. Are my survival instincts kicking in and attempting to search my memories for a reason to fight for life, or is my brain simply frying from the stress of maintaining homeostasis? Why is this happening? Am I going to fixate on a random, rare moment of happiness and die with the glow of that in my eyes? Perhaps my brain is looking for a person inside of its many pictures to accompany me in death, to remain mentally by my side as I die.

There is only one I want here now and I don't want a damn imaginary recreation.

I lean on the wall, shaking with an effort to stand. I _must_ be dying. I'm so weak and just want to sleep. There is no other reason to stay awake because the one I want is not here. It is not she I lean upon for strength and comfort. I cannot weep into the folds of her dress and beg forgiveness for never being worthy of her presence. There is no soft hand on my face or a hummed melody to fill my ears as hearing finally fades after the body is long dead.

The pictures come faster now, hitting like bricks crashing onto a street below a thirty-story building. Screams, pain, "_You deserve to die_!", a song, a lovely face unmatched by any I've ever seen (and I've seen so much in my life), and "_Oh my betrothed of a day, if I did not love you, I would not give you my lips_!"

And then I remember.

Heart bursting with indescribable emotion, I remember her lips upon mine and I imagine that those words, spoken months ago, were directed at me in that instant. What if she had loved me? Could I die happily then, knowing that I had but a second or two to share a common feeling with her? Could I smile when I recall the velvet softness of her lips?

"What does it matter?" I spit out, choosing a place on the floor that's as good as any to die. "What ifs count for nothing."

But I close my eyes and focus on the only image worth remembering in my life, visualizing regardless of reality. I build myself a small mental casket to hide away in, opening and closing my mouth as I say "I love you" over and over and over…


	3. The Seed of Obsession

**I got a super tan this week (I've never been this dark...) but unfortunately a side effect of the sun was my brain turning to scrambled egg. So, this chapter isn't what I want it to be but I'm satisfied enough to post it.**

The Seed of Obsession In a Single Thought

Across the room, surrounded by handsome men and sparkling in the light provided by multiple candelabras and the glamorous chandelier, she stood. She was wearing a dress of eye-catching red with butterfly wings attached in the back and her hair was pulled up into a stylish shape. I couldn't help but think it must be painful to tie up one's hair in such a manner.

And that's the thought that led me to stare at her a moment too long. If I had simply gone over her and the small crowd she gathered, life as I knew it would have continued. Nothing would have tremored within me and I would have lived the remainder of my days as ever. I wonder what it would be like to die without having given my soul to someone else, to be completely my own man. Sometimes I hate myself for seeing her.

I wouldn't have noticed, _shouldn't_ have cared to notice her. But that lone thought triggered my eyes to observe her face for any sort of annoyance at the twisting and pulling of her hair. And the more I looked, the more I couldn't help but look.

She was lovely.

I cannot help it, I am drawn to beauty as a mindless bug is entranced by light only to be destroyed by it the closer it gets. There was something oddly entrancing about the glow of her skin and the way her spine curved to confidently stand and the humoring tilt of her head as she listened to someone speak and the delicacy of her small hands and the sweet smile that I could paint a million times and still find room for further interpretation-

"Can I help you, monsieur?"

And her eyes! Beautiful, beautiful eyes. What I would do to own those eyes and be able to observe them any time I wished.

"Monsieur?"

I shook my head, realizing that not only had I pushed aside all of her other admirers and come to stand before her, but that I was staring quite intensely at those amazing eyes just as many other pairs of eyes were curiously (and angrily) watching me.

"Monsieur, can I help you?"

She was speaking to me! I didn't know where to categorize her voice in the instruments of my mind. It was so sweet that I could have written a song based on that simple phrase.

"May I have this dance?"

Hardly believing my forwardness, but unable to come up with anything clever to say, I accepted her nod and arm and led her to the dance floor. I was very fortunate that this was a costume party and my unusual mask triggered nothing more than an appreciative upward glance from her.

I led her near the edge of the dancing circle, unwilling to become vulnerable by surrounding myself with other human beings in the center. We danced in silence for a few seconds, I looking anywhere but her face and she peering somewhere into my left shoulder. I for one was not about to strike up conversation and in fact, feeling her hands on my torso was uncomfortable enough to almost send me running in the opposite direction. Human contact was difficult to bear even from this work of anatomical art.

But when she started to hum along with the small performing ensemble, I never wanted to let her go.

It was done in perfect technique! To those ignorant enough, yes, humming takes concentration and proper muscle movements to be pulled off correctly. The mouth must open while remaining closed and the sound must resonate inside the body's cavities, eventually causing a vibration in the small of the back and the top of the head. I didn't realize it at the time, but as my brain went through these technical facts, I was beginning the first of my obsession.

I dug my fingers into her back, ignoring the delicate butterfly wings she had fastened to complete her costume, and though she gasped in shock, I lowered my eyes to look directly into hers.

"What is your name?" I hissed. Gone was the captured gentleman and in his place I had introduced the conniving beast that would claw his way through earth and stone and the very pedestal of the gods to have her voice in my possession.

"Please, monsieur, you're hurting me," she whimpered. Those awe-inspiring eyes widened in delicious fear and became even more visually delighting.

"Tell me your name!"

"Christine…Christine Daaé," she mumbled through chattering teeth.

"Who taught you to do that?" If I could find out the name of whoever created such a wonderful tone-just in humming-I would hunt them down and steal every last bit of their knowledge for I had never heard such natural, but practical faultlessness in a human voice. I came closer and closer to her face, willing the voice to sound again.

"Let me go!"

She lashed away from me, spinning into the opportunistic arms of a nearby man dressed in a soldier's attire.

"Christine?" he said, looking more concerned than an anonymous man might. "Are you alright?"

I didn't stay long enough to hear how she responded to his question; I had already vanished into the crowd and made my getaway.

Christine Daaé.

Christine Daaé who had the voice of an angel, a voice that I had instantly claimed as my own. I would take it, secure those gifted vocal cords, and nurture them as a mother might raise her child. This _Christine_ would be mine.

Then it was with a start that I realized I hadn't even heard her sing a single note.


	4. Mar On An Artist's Masterpiece

**Gosh, I'm just worthless these days, aren't I? Why do I even both submitting such crap? And it's pathetically short too.**

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Mar On An Artist's Masterpiece

Truth be told, it was a lovely night. The midnight blue sky glittered with stars as all of Paris nestled snuggly in its arms. Snowfall happened to be lightly sifting in a low breeze like tinkling notes in a lullaby. The opera house below was alight with fiery passion, glowing as a beacon for the entire city to behold.

But all of these images were mere amateur spatters of a paint brush in comparison to _her_.

With that alluring red cloak wrapped around her chilled body and brown curls spilling out over the back, she stood as a radiant goddess with her face to the sky as if daring the Almighty God to make her any less beautiful. Her pale hands hung limply by her side and every so often bundled into the material of her cloak to warm from the dancing snowflakes.

Yes, she was enchanting that night with her cheeks touched in a rosy hue rebelling against the frosty cold. And then there was the endearing tremble of her lips when a stronger gust of wind stirred up already settled snow. If she would sing, I'm sure the winter would lay down its weapons and calmly listen to her angelic voice.

And I thought to myself, 'I could look at her forever if she weren't in his arms.'

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**Seriously, unless you want me to keep churning out this bologna, someone had better motivate me.**


	5. Milestones

**Alright, this is just pathetic. I apologize for rotting your mind with this.**

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Milestones

"You did very well tonight," I said from behind the mirror, trying to mask the ever-present pride in my voice. "There is nothing to feel apprehensive about in the upcoming auditions."

She glowed while receiving the praise and did a small embarrassed tilt on the back of her heels. Her hands once clenched tightly together were now loosened and one twisted in her brown hair. "Thank you, angel," she said softly with downcast eyes.

"Next lesson we will go over a new song. I believe you will enjoy it," I mentioned before preparing my goodbyes (they always took so much effort). "Until tomorrow, my protégé."

I almost missed the sigh of disappointment and way she focused on her toes with nervous intensity. But I did notice her immediate change in attitude. I observe her far too closely sometimes…

"Is something the matter, Christine?" I asked, nearly to the point of pressing my hands against the glass in a false attempt to reach and comfort her. Any cause for distress in my precious student should be dispersed without delay.

She wouldn't answer me at first, swearing it was nothing of importance and that her worldly desires would only depress her angel. What she couldn't understand was that it was the _not knowing_ that depressed me.

"Please tell me, Christine," I urged. I probably sounded more like a man at that moment than any time before.

"I just wanted to ask…you haven't sang to me in a while and I was wondering-if you don't mind, of course…it's a childish request, but-" She would have gone on for miles if I hadn't stopped her.

"All you need to do is ask, Christine, and I shall do whatever it is that you wish." And _there_ I probably sounded more like a lovesick mongrel than I'd ever wanted to. I was passing all kinds of personal milestones tonight.

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**This university is sucking the life out of me. I can't write. Seriously, I tried writing something-ANYTHING-today and I produced 2 paragraphs of nonsense. I'm losing it.**

**But I just discovered Disturbed helps my brain settle down, so maybe I'll mix that with another peanut butter & syrup sandwich soon and write something worth reading.**


	6. Can I Hold Your Hand?

**I've been having a very stressful time as of late worrying about transferring to another school, money, and general college crap. But I went for a long bike ride and found a duck pond tonight. If you don't know, ducks are the most peaceful creatures you'll ever find. I love ducks! (I wanted one for my birthday one year...and still do.) You may think they are just little annoying creatures that go "quack quack quack" 24/7, but go to a duck pond with serious issues on your mind and instantly all woes are dismissed by their waddling and swishing around in the water.**

**Oh ducks...**

**Anyway, I came back from the bike ride/duck revitalization ready to do something. This may not be wonderful, but it's better than the last crap chapter.**

Can I Hold Your Hand?

_The simple holding of hands is often an action performed multiple times a day without comprehensive thought-almost like blinking when the sun gets bright. A person does not think about the heat, and yet the muscles in the eyes clench to protect it from the heat._

_The process of holding hands is very similar. When seeking comfort or momentarily desiring a bit of attention, a person may grasp another's hand. The hands are out tools, multi-functional tools humans use to get through the day. The taking of another's hand is to say that the work being performed at that exact time may be put to rest and attention may be focused elsewhere._

_But the complete disarming of a person is also another aspect of joining hands. When fingers are interlocked, physical trust has been placed in the dominant digits as the smaller are incapable of acting should the need arise. Encasing a hand of lesser proportion signifies more aggressively the authority wielded by the larger._

_In a romantic sentiment, the holding of hands is a tangible reminder of the emotions within each owner. When hands are joined, it allows the leader to direct the other's movements, thereby expressing a sense of togetherness wherever the path may take the pair._

_But to experience the sensation of intertwining fingers without conscious thought or recognition even after touch has been established-a moment in which two people are so linked that they reach for each other in the same moment and do not even realize until the connected has already withdrawn-is something which may never be explained._

I realized one day after going through some old mementoes leftover from my initial "Obsessed with Christine" phase (I've since progressed to the "Irrevocably in love with Christine" phase) that I thought far too much about a particular soprano's hand…explicitly the act of joining my hand with hers. I had written songs, drawn images, and spend hours devoted to the thought of our fingers intertwining in a single instant of sheer immeasurable bliss.

And nothing had come of it!

Absurd!

Was I not a man? Okay, maybe I wasn't totally considered human…But, could I not act on my whims confidently? Usually dangerous things and deaths occurred if I did…

Nothing good came of that mental conversation so I cut it short.

_I wanted to hold Christine's hand and I would stop at nothing until had accomplished just that_. The end. The thought sent an excited shiver down my spine. My insides jumbled and I chuckled darkly. I had a goal and would reach it one small inching of my digits at a time. And the end result would be glorious! If I composed melodies on the mere imagined feeling, the true sensation would surely incapacitate me for days without end. I could hardly wait to be struck dumb by Christine's dear soft skin pressed against mine.

So…how did one hideous, malformed beast go about joining hands with one lovely angel?


	7. Kisses

**Well let's just say I've had a hard night and I feel like picking on someone for once rather than being the one pushed around like a puppet without a will.

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Kisses

I was at a loss for words. I couldn't move, couldn't understand what was happening in the world around me. Caught up in the moment as I was, any external influences were lost in a swash of black and white, hissing noises, and the feeling of water lapping against my calves. Beyond that, I was lost.

She had kissed me! I wanted to move my fingers to my lips and touch them to see if they were still there. I felt as if every part of me were on fire and my lips-surely they were turned to ash from the unbearable heat of her mouth against mine! But my limbs were numb and would not react as my brain directed.

And here I was, standing dumb and mute as a marble gargoyle. I should be jumping for joy, spinning her around in my arms and singing at the top of my lungs. I should be happy…

But all I wasn't. Why wasn't I happy?

She didn't mean it. The kiss was a ploy. The kiss was means of leveraging the boy out from under my smothering hands. She, my innocent Christine, was playing with me like a little string wrapped around her fingers: winding me round and round until I was caught up in a knot. There was no affection in that kiss. The passion was imagined, the fire in my soul was false, and I was very nearly going to act upon those untrue emotions.

Oh, my Christine was a clever girl. Yes, she was. But I had spent many years perfecting the skill of intellectual maneuvering. She was new to the art of deceitful wit but I was very, very experienced. I could see perfectly the hatched plan in her darling blue eyes. Right there, twinkling near the edge of her deep pupils.

"Did you seek to fool me, dearest?" I asked in a cruel voice. I grabbed her wrist before she could respond and wrenched her to her knees. With a snarl, I leered over her and spat, "We'll have plenty of time together to work on your acting skills."

She cast a quick glance at the boy, nearly passed out from oxygen deprivation. I saw genuine concern cast across her features and recorded the image for future comparison when she might use a poor replica to sway my will. "What do you mean, Erik?"

"Well I do believe marriage is 'until death do you part'. Is it not?" I laughed at her horrified expression.

She shivered violently and fresh tears spilled from her lying eyes. Did she think that I might let her go? That I would reach some level of humanity through her gift of a kiss? The notion sent humorous tremors through me.

"At least let Raoul go. Like you promised! Please," she begged. The image was completed as she was already at her knees and her pretty head was bowed and she was wringing her hands tumultuously.

I would not be played again. I was the master of lies here. This was my domain and only _I_ had a ruling declaration in every decision made here.

Her head popped up to meet my gaze when the disgusting crunch echoed in the cavern. Eyes widening in realization at the rope pulled taut in my hands, she hung open her mouth. I let go of the rope and the body of her lover fell as a useless doll into the pool of water.

Christine made to scramble over to the lifeless boy but I regained control of her wrists and pinned her to my side.

"How about another kiss, _dearest_?"


End file.
